Cui Bono
by owlcroft
Summary: Hardcastle and McCormick try to settle back into their routine following the events detailed in "Dead Week", but there's still a murderer on the loose and Mark's still under suspicion of murder. Who stands to benefit from the crimes, or "Cui bono?"
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

Dead Week, the traditional quiet days of study before exams, takes on a whole new meaning at McCormick's law school. First comes an accusation of cheating, aimed at him by Professor Hawksworth. Is it just a matter of mistrust and misunderstanding, or some deeper malice? And as soon as those charges have been allayed, even more serious ones are raised: a floppy disk containing Hawksworth's final exam is found in McCormick's possession. Means, motive, opportunity—looks like an open-and-shut case for expulsion, except for the intervention of the LAPD, in the person of Lt. Frank Harper.

Hawksworth and his boss, Dean Thomas, aren't happy to see the charges made a public matter but that's the least of their worries. Theft is soon compounded by murder. Audra West, another law student, is found strangled the night after she was seen chatting with McCormick. At least he may be off the hook for that crime, with an alibi provided by Hardcastle. Then Randy Powers, a student who really _was_ cheating, dies of an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound.

With Dead Week getting deader by the minute, and exams only a few days away, a cloud of academic suspicion is still hovering directly over McCormick. Hardcastle forges ahead, drafting Mattie Groves as defense counsel in the upcoming university disciplinary hearing, while he scouts out witnesses who may be able to answer questions about the two deaths.

McCormick appreciates all the effort, but he's tired of swimming against the current of disapproval. He thought life, post-parole, would somehow be different. He goes to Hawksworth's office, hoping for one last chance to establish the truth before he gets kicked out of law school. But now Hawksworth is also dead, and Mark is standing over the body when Hardcastle shows up, with two other students in tow, a moment later.

McCormick is taken into custody, but soon released, as preliminary evidence surfaces implicating Hawksworth in the death of Randy Powers (Hawksworth's jacket tests positive for gunshot residue). There's still the matter of the stolen exam, though, with a forfeiture policy if the accused doesn't appear to present a defense. Is it merely a coincidence that someone in a dark sedan tries to run the Coyote off the road the next morning, as Mark and the judge are driving to the university?

Surviving that encounter, they find a cohort of McCormick's fellow students waiting for them outside the hearing room. Heartened by this unexpected show of support, and brilliantly defended by Mattie Groves, McCormick is found innocent of academic misconduct.

Dead Week draws to a close with McCormick reinstated, just in time to take his final exams. But there's a web of deaths and deceit still to be untangled, and what both Mark and the judge what to know is,

 **Cui Bono?**

 **Chapter One**

Hardcastle glanced over his shoulder at the first sound of the car approaching. Not the Coyote, of course—nothing like the throaty timbre of McCormick's finely-tuned vehicle. Still, it was a welcome distraction in the form of a venerable Mercedes, driven by Mattie Groves. He smiled, shut the book he hadn't been making much progress in, and went for the door, not even giving her a chance to knock before he had it open.

"Milt," she was smiling, too, though there was a hint of puzzlement to it, "how've you been?"

That wasn't the question, naturally. If she'd asked the one she'd been thinking it might've have gone _"Why the hell haven't you called?"_

He kept smiling, ignoring both versions as he stepped aside and waved her into the house. In truth, it had been nearly two weeks since she'd confronted the disciplinary board at McCormick's hearing and brought off a coup of sorts, with Mark exonerated of the charge of stealing a copy of Hawksworth's final exam.

Hardcastle knew Mark had thanked her; he'd looked genuinely grateful, both to her and his fellow students for their show of moral support at the hearing. But that momentary elevation of spirits had been quickly doused by cold reality. There were still two dead students, along with Hawksworth himself. And then there was the other small matter . . .

"How'd Mark's exams go?" Mattie asked casually as she strolled past Hardcastle and into the den.

He trudged after her shaking his head. "Aw, you know it hasn't even been a week. Takes longer than that. It's a lot of essays. Anyway, I think they like to see the kids squirm."

Mattie grimaced as she sat in one of the wingbacks. "Yeah, you might be right. Hey, I wonder who's grading Hawksworth's classes?"

It was an innocent enough question, though Hardcastle thought it was more likely an entry into the topic of the professor's untimely death, three days before the exam.

Like any good witness, he stuck to the facts. "They hauled in one of the emeriti, Kolper, remember him?"

"Clarence Kolper? I thought he was dead." Mattie frowned in memory. "He didn't give 'em the exam in Latin, did he?"

Hardcastle grinned. "Nah. McCormick said there weren't even too many 'thee's and 'thou's."

He'd glanced back toward the window, and then, realizing he'd done that, shifted his gaze sharply back to Mattie, his grin now more rigid.

"He's not around, huh?" Mattie said, looking perfectly willing to steer the conversation to this new topic of interest.

Hardcastle was quickly grasping that there wasn't much that was safe, except maybe the weather, which was sunny right now but had the feel of storm clouds just over the windward horizon.

"He's out," he said, trying to sound nonchalantly forthcoming. "Said something about visiting a friend, I think. Takes his mind off the waiting; you know how that is."

00000

They'd decided to brave the sell-back line at the campus bookstore, figuring it would be short enough by this point. McCormick had set his box down on the tile floor about twenty minutes earlier and was nudging it along a foot or so every five minutes. His companion, a cheerful brunette with an uncommon interest in the tax code, had her own shopping bag full of well-read volumes.

"You said we weren't going to talk about it," Amy London said, with a tone of disapproval. "No looking back, no second guessing, no 'What did you say for question number five?'"

"Right." Mark had the decency to look contrite for a moment, then quirked a quizzical eyebrow and said, "What _did_ you say for number five?"

She shook her head in exasperation. " _No_.We're not going there. Anyway, what do you have to worry about? You're the guy with all the answers."

There was a pause, followed by a flustered, "Oh, my God, I didn't mean it like that." She and glanced around and dropped her voice. "We all know you didn't steal that exam."

Mark thought he'd schooled his expression not to react to even the intentionally hurtful remarks. This one though, coming out of left field and apparently unintentional, caught him unprepared.

He frowned. "Ah . . . yeah, I mean _no_ , I know you—"

"We _know_ ," she interrupted, with more conviction. "Give us a little credit. We could spot a railroad job."

"Thanks," he said, trying to sound as sincere as he felt. "I know you organized that little sit-in at my hearings."

"And you can stop thanking me. It was pretty spontaneous. Mostly, anyway." She blushed slightly.

"I'll admit, you don't look like the arm-twisting type."

The line snaked forward another two feet and they took up the slack. The conversation seemed to have taken the same course, in fits and starts complete with awkward pauses, and dead halts. This was his first venture back into the collegiate waters, since the all-consuming week of exams, and he'd thought it would be easiest to start with his most stalwart supporter. He was grateful that the cashier was finally at hand.

He let Amy go first, helping her stack her books on the counter and then waiting patiently for the total. She made a face when she heard it. They both did. McCormick was on the Hardcastle scholarship program, but he tried to husband the judge's resources carefully. As he lifted his own box onto the counter he knew the news wasn't going to be much better.

"Maybe I'll splurge and get a steak dinner with this." Amy said ruefully as she tucked her wallet back into her bag. "Or use it as a down payment on _one_ textbook for next term." She glanced over at the shelves as they passed the section labeled _School of Law_. "Wanna look?"

Mark hesitated, then decided to fudge the truth. "Might put a jinx on it. Better to wait."

She tsked. "Such a pessimist." But then she let him steer her toward the door, against the flow of incoming students. She glanced over her shoulder as they exited. "It's such a racket, you know. Really. All of it."

There seemed to be more to her statement than an assessment of modern textbook sales practices but he stuck to the surface meaning. "Yeah, I don't even highlight mine and I'm really careful with the spines."

She stopped abruptly, forcing him to halt, too. They were partway down the block, at a spot that opened into a small green, complete with obscure statuary and a couple of benches. She pulled him over to one of them, one that was well away from the light between-term foot traffic.

She turned to him, cocking her head as though she couldn't believe he was quite as naïve as he seemed. She finally leaned in slightly and said, "I'm not talking recycled textbooks here."

"An eighty-percent mark-up sounds like vigorish to me," Mark said dryly.

"Okay, well, textbooks too. But not _just_ them. Sit," she said insistently.

He sat. He wasn't sure where this was going, but she had his undivided attention.

"You know my friend Heidi; she's second year."

He shook his head no, but she waved that away.

"Doesn't matter. She's seeing Joe—Joe Perillo."

 _That_ was a familiar name. He was the shining star of the recently-graduated class of '87, holding an easy plurality of the votes for "most likely to succeed."

"Sure, Joe." Mark tried to make it sound casual, though he'd only met the guy once, and that had been outside his own disciplinary hearing.

"Well, turns out _he's_ got a job as Professor Kolper's law clerk—you know, ease him back into the flow, make sure he doesn't take a fall on the stairs."

Mark nodded. Nobody wanted to see an octogenarian take a header down the steps of the law school.

"And one of his jobs—Joe's, I mean—is getting Kolper to and from all the meetings lately—and he says there've been a _whole_ lot of those."

Mark shrugged. "Sure, end of term—heck, beginning and middle of term, too, I guess."

"No, not just meeting meetings. I mean end-of-civilization-as-we-know-it meetings. At least that's what Joe says. Dean Thomas is having kittens about this whole Hawksworth thing."

Mark grimaced. "You mean he's not all that worried about the two murdered students, just why a member of the faculty keeled over?"

"So far it only sounds like he's worried about Hawksworth taking the blame for shooting Randy. He likes the desperate-student-suicide-version better, with you as Randy's arch-nemesis."

"Ugh. I almost bought into that one myself. There's something about blood spatters on a note—adds a lot to the presentation."

"You were there—you and the judge, right after he was shot?"

Mark nodded. "Seems to be happening a lot lately."

"Yeah, first Randy and then Professor Hawksworth." She winced. "Now _that_ one the dean really would like to be a murder."

"No cause of death from the ME's office yet. When it takes this long it's usually 'cause they don't have anything obvious and they're waiting for the toxicology report."

Amy looked at him slightly askance. "You really do know a lot about this stuff."

"Not exactly a hobby. Uh, an avocation? Does that make it sound better?"

"I think that's just a fancy word for 'hobby'."

"Okay, it's what we do, me and the judge." He paused for a moment, but then felt compelled to explain. "We followed Randy that night because we knew he was involved somehow. We were parked outside his place when we heard the shots fired. And the Hawksworth thing—I went to talk to him because, well . . ."

Amy sat, listening attentively. She made no effort to rescue him from his hesitation.

He finally cleared his throat and went on. "I knew he'd framed me. The first accusation might have been just prejudice, but the second one—Hawksworth _knew_ that diskette was in my briefcase; that means he knew someone had put it there. And all the people directly involved with that were dead."

"So you were going there to what, threaten him?"

"No, not exactly. Hell, that sounds bad, doesn't it? I've been really hoping the ME would come back with a verdict of coronary—or a nice stroke or something."

"Hah, then they'd just say you scared him to death. 'Them' being anyone who didn't personally know Hawksworth." Amy sighed. "Well, just in case you're wondering what Dean Thomas is hoping for, he's telling people that Hawksworth must have been poisoned—dying so suddenly like that without even time to call for help. The phone was right there."

"Not suicide, though."

Amy shook her head decisively. "Not if Thomas has his druthers. He's not naming names—he knows his way around the California Civil Code—but everybody knows both you and Judge Hardcastle were in Harksworth's office that day."

"So were a lot of people. For that matter, his _secretary_ spent all day there."

"Good God, not Mrs. Trask." Amy gave him a look of shocked disapproval.

"Why not? I've got a couple of aunts who say it's always the least likely suspect. Anyway, it wasn't Hardcastle." Mark sighed. "Poison is definitely not his MO. Too subtle."

"I don't think you should joke about this, Mark," she said sternly.

"I wish I was. I've been hauled in for questioning twice for this mess already. I'm so _damn_ convenient."

He sat, frowning silently for a moment, before he noticed the concern on his companion's face. "Sorry," he said, drawing himself up a little straighter, "the wallowing gets ugly, but I try to keep it brief." He forced a smile, got one in return, and felt his own become a little more natural. "And I really do appreciate the heads up. When the other shoe drops, I'll at least be able to duck."

"Uh-uh. Throw it back at them. Hey," her smile broadened just a little, "maybe I know how."

00000

Dean Thomas had been put on hold. It was not a familiar situation for him. Under most circumstances it would have been his secretary who handled connections, his own time being much too valuable for such mundanities. This, however, was a sensitive matter, and it wasn't as if he'd forgotten how to dial a phone.

But to be put on _hold._ He sniffed. He considered hanging up, but, no . . . this was too important. And then, as if to reward him for his self-control, he heard a click and a familiar voice on the other end.

"Thomas? I thought we'd agreed this was not a good time to confer." The man's tone was severe.

"I . . . but," Thomas stopped and cleared his throat, feeling he hadn't gotten off on the right note. "Look, Winston—"

" _Dean_ Thomas," the man snapped, "recent events give the distinct impression that you do not have things under control at your institution."

"I think that's—"

"An unfair assessment? Perhaps three separate ongoing police investigations is your idea of a well-oiled clock; we had something less baroque in mind. And on top of everything else, it is my understanding that the _entire_ class, excepting the deceased, were permitted to take the examinations last week."

"I couldn't help that. I was outvoted."

"In other words, you couldn't even control a simple disciplinary hearing."

"'Simple'?" Thomas heard his voice rising. He tamped it down and hissed, "Judge Groves was there—along with nearly a third of the student body. And the 'evidence' Hawksworth found wouldn't have stood up in a first-year moot court exercise."

"Hawksworth was regrettably shoddy. I was . . . _disappointed_."

The voice at the other end of the line had gone remarkably chilly. Thomas felt a shiver, and he was not the shivering type.

"The ME's report, on Hawksworth," Thomas swallowed again, "do you think it will show he died of natural causes?"

"I doubt it."

"But the coat, the swabs for gunpowder residue—the evidence that he may have been involved in that Powers student's death—"

"I wouldn't worry about that, if I were you," the man said dryly. "These things have a way of working out."

"Ahh . . ."

"I don't think we'll be trusting this to another disciplinary hearing, do you?"

"Well," Thomas said, feeling his way toward a small but steady light, "a felony conviction would result in automatic expulsion."

"Precisely. And I don't want to hear from you again until this matter is settled."

"No, certainly not." Thomas paused, then asked, very circumspectly, "But things are in motion?"

The only response was the disconnecting click from the other end. He held the phone out for a moment, feeling dissatisfied. Then he hung it up, sat back slowly, and permitted himself a smile. It was a cautious one, with a remaining hint of uncertainty, but Winston was the kind of man who got things done.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Mattie finally had to make do with Hardcastle's sincere promise to keep her informed. It was the best he could do. She'd left, looking resigned.

McCormick, he was pleased to note, didn't put in an appearance until nearly an hour later, pulling into the drive just as the judge finished checking the mailbox.

"Anything interesting?" he asked casually.

"Ah . . ." Hardcastle shuffled through the short stack, "no, um . . . wait—" he glanced up and realized Mark was already half up out of the driver's seat. "No, just something from the school's annual fund. It's addressed to me. Probably want a donation."

He watched as McCormick sank slowly back into the seat, muttering, "Don't _do_ that to me."

"Dunno what you're so worried about. You did fine. Hey, if you're not here when it comes, can I open it?"

" _No_ ," McCormick shot back indignantly. But then, on the heels of that, he frowned and then shrugged. "Guess you've got a right."

It was Hardcastle's turn to frown. "What? Ya mean 'cause I paid for 'em or something? Nah," he shook his head, "they're yours; you earned them."

"Let's call it a joint venture. Okay, you can steam the envelope open, how's that?"

Hardcastle grinned. "I'll glue it shut again, promise."

"I suppose after that you're expecting a lift to the house, huh?"

The judge climbed in, still smiling.

00000

Dinner was burgers a la Hardcastle. Halfway through that the judge mentioned Mattie's visit. It might have been on the grounds of quid pro quo: "I told you about my day, now you tell me about yours." All he got in return was a slight twitch from the man across the table and,

"Oh, I almost forgot." Mark lifted himself up just enough to pull the wallet from his hip pocket. "Sold some textbooks back today." He opened it, extracted a few bills and offered them, looking apologetic. "Not much—there's a receipt."

"I thought you were going to hang out with a friend."

"I did. Well, sort of. It was Amy—you know, the rabble rouser."

"How could I forget?" Hardcastle smiled fondly.

"Here, take this. I stood in line for almost forty-five minutes."

"I though I told you to hang onto them. Might need 'em for the bar exam."

"I took notes. _Here_." He held the bills out.

Hardcastle reached for the money reluctantly. "S'pose we can put it toward next semester's books." He thumbed the small sheaf and frowned. "Well, _one_ book, anyway. You should have told me you were heading over there. You've got a list for the next term already, dontcha?"

"Ah, well, yeah, but—"

"It's that jinx thing again, isn't it?" The judge scowled. "You gotta get over that."

"Says the man who insists on checking into the hotel room with his lucky number on the door."

"That's only when it really counts. Anyway, you're always expecting the worst—"

"And I'm rarely disappointed." Mark softened that with a smile. He _had_ been pleasantly disappointed, at least a couple of times recently. But it hadn't been enough times yet to consider it a trend, and from what he'd heard that afternoon, there still might be bad luck in the offing.

"So," he said, changing the subject, "What'd Mattie have to say?"

Hardcastle raised one eyebrow then settled it firmly back down again. "You mean did she have the inside track on the ME's report?"

There was no immediate protest or denial.

The judge sighed. "Well, anyway, she didn't—but if you'd gotten an envelope from the university today she would've beaten me to the steam kettle."

Mark grimaced. "I think you've both got your priorities out of whack. Rumor has it that they're still gunning for me over there. They think Hawksworth was killed. It won't matter what's in that envelope if they find some way to pin that on me."

"How? He was already dead for an hour before you got there."

"You know those 'time of death' things are just estimates. I've got a fast car, and no alibi from the time Mattie dropped me off here, to when I was found standing over his body. I might've been hanging around there for a while after I offed him."

"Why the hell would you do something like that—hell, why would you kill him?"

"Anger, revenge because he framed me—or maybe because I really _was_ guilty of cheating and I knew he had more evidence somewhere."

"So we interrupted you after you killed him and you were still searching his office?" Hardcastle pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment and then lifted his head and stared firmly at the younger man. "Listen, we don't even know if he was killed—"

"The smart money says he was poisoned."

Hardcastle stared at him in disbelief. "Says who?"

"If my source is right, Dean Thomas."

" _Damn_." Hardcastle squinted at him.

"Maybe it's just wishful thinking on his part. Maybe he's not involved."

"He's not on the list," Hardcastle muttered, half to himself.

McCormick's eyes narrowed. "What list?"

"Huh? Oh—well, I haven't been sitting on my duff, ya know."

"The 'list'?"

"I was cross-referencing all the cases—the stuff you've been involved with the last couple of years. It didn't seem like Hawksworth would have gone to all this trouble—"

"Framing me, killing two people."

"Yeah, all that," Hardcastle nodded, "just 'cause he didn't like the idea of an ex-con in one of his classes."

"Oh, well, finally we get to the crux of the thing."

"But it's not just that, it can't be," Hardcastle said. "I suppose it might have nudged him in the wrong direction but—"

"And we already know he had help—those guys that ran us off the road, unless they were just more old alums who thought I needed my comeuppance. Anyway, Hawksworth was already dead when they came after us."

"Exactly, so I came up with a list, the ones voted most likely to hold a grudge against you personally."

"When were you gonna show it to me?"

Hardcastle looked hesitant. "It's kinda long."

"How long?"

Hardcastle shrugged vaguely. "Not really long. More like long _ish_."

McCormick shook his head. "Maybe you could let me take a look at it, since in a sense it's my list, too; not that I couldn't come up with a few names right off the top of my head."

"Not as many as I came up with, I'll bet." Hardcastle sighed as he pulled himself out of his chair and headed toward the den.

00000

Judge Gault hated unpredictability. He despised irregularity. He was singularly wedded to his schedule, and in Cal. v. Carroden, the defense had been expected to rest before that day's adjournment, after one final witness had been cross-examined and with perhaps a little redirectional tidying up.

Instead the defendant's attorney had made an unexpected request to recall a prosecution witness, Kendall Muller, a technician from the police lab whose testimony, as Gault recalled it, had been a mere quotidian recital of the procedures involved in isolating and identifying some carpet fibers found in the accused's van. The sidebar had gotten testy, but in the end, the specter of a reversible error dictated that the defense be granted every opportunity to present their case.

And as annoyed as Gault was, the results of the additional questioning had been astonishing. Muller, a youngish man with no memorable deficiencies the last time he'd been in the witness box, had grown rapidly more flustered under questioning. The defense attorney had produced a series of exhibits that systematically destroyed the chain of evidence, and had finally proved, incontrovertibly, that Muller hadn't even been in the lab on the date the fibers were reportedly tested.

There'd been crying. Gault hated crying—and from a man, no less. The awkwardness of it all demanded an adjournment. He'd had half a mind to remand the negligent technician to custody with a charge of perjury but he supposed the prosecution ought to have a chance to put the malfeasance in perspective—in the morning.

He strolled into Chez Pierre's, his Wednesday place though his doctor had been warning him off the escargot. Bernard had shown him to his usual spot, a booth toward the side, where he could savor his well-earned gastropods in peace. No sooner been seated than a weasely little server arrived to fill his water-glass—then slipped away with a nod and a smile.

It was a moment before Gault noticed the folded paper beneath the stemmed glass. He was almost certain it hadn't been there when he'd sat down. He frowned at it, as out of place as the whole day had been. He finally sniffed, lifted the glass, and reached for it.

It was a nice piece of linen bond, eight by five, folded once with a crisp crease. Gault's eyes tracked to the signature first, then took in the rest of the short note—just a neatly penned line. He looked up, immediately and saw the writer, seated across the restaurant, obviously having recently arrived himself. The man gazed at him, with only a serene nod in acknowledgment.

Gault swiftly reviewed his current case load and his conscience and, finding no conflict, returned the attention with a smile of his own and a gesture to the empty seat across from him. His expression flattened slightly as the man stood, tall and dignified as ever. He'd never liked being next to him in photos. Gault sighed and stiffened his features into something more collegial as his old classmate approached.

00000

Dean Thomas sat in his office, staring at the man across the desk from him. He'd only had a passing familiarity with the recently deceased Randy Powers, but he could see the resemblance. In this case it was the seed of insolence brought to the fruition of age and power.

"Mr. Powers," he said cautiously, "I really can't tell you anything more than the police—"

"Who've told me absolutely nothing," the man snarled. "'Ongoing investigation'— _bah_. They're covering for someone. There's no way you'll convince me that my boy killed himself. What about that professor of his—the one they found dead in his office?"

"Professor Hawksworth. Very unfortunate. The cause of death is, ah, _undetermined._ " Thomas smiled weakly. "He was one of our most esteemed colleagues."

"Esteemed, hell—I heard he was slandering my son; accused him of cheating."

"My God, no. I assure you no such charges were laid by the professor."

"Then who the hell was spreading the lies?"

The dean tried to appear hesitant. He wanted 'hesitant' on the record. He tried to make it look as if he were struggling with his conscience for the greater good before he finally blurted out, "It was another student. A 'reformed' felon by the name of McCormick."

Powers frowned. "You mean the same guy the cops said found the body?"

"One of them. The other was a mentor of McCormick's. A former judge who resigned a few years back. He has something of a reputation."

"That Hardcastle guy." Powers grunted. "Yeah. Vigilante."

"That's the one." Thomas looked prim. "They were both on the scene of your son's demise shortly after the shots were fired. _Two_ shots."

"Yeah. The cops tried to sell me some cockamamie theory about how he missed the first time." Powers' face clouded. "If my kid _had_ shot himself, he wouldn't've missed."

"Of course not," Thomas soothed. "Randolph seemed like a very resolute young man. The police gave me to believe that the second shot was merely to convey the gunpowder residue to your son's hand."

"And the note?"

"Faked—at least that's their current theory. I believe it said," Thomas knitted his brow for a moment, then quoted from memory, " _I can't handle this anymore. They're following me and they're going to frame me. I didn't do it._ " He looked up, gauging the impact and then plunged into the exegesis.

"'It' appears to be the murder of another student, a young woman, Ms. West. She'd been seen in the company of Mr. McCormick the night before her death. The 'they's are open to interpretation, but I don't need to point out who _was_ following your son they night he died."

"That doesn't make any sense," Powers grumbled. "So they were following him—trying to frame him. I still don't believe he shot himself—but if one of them did it, why would they implicate themselves?"

"Of what? It would just be the vague ramblings of a distraught young man." Thomas shrugged. "And what better way to throw the authorities off the scent? I'm not saying the shooting was entirely premeditated. But since there was no denying they _were_ there—their vehicle was parked right out on the street where any number of students might have seen it. Well, what better way to cover their tracks than to jot a note—"

"I saw it." Powers winced. "It's a pretty good imitation of my son's handwriting. Not perfect, but good."

"That is interesting, isn't it? Who knows what skills this ex-con picked up in prison? And who knows what use he put them to—he'd already accused your son of cheating. Perhaps he was working on other evidence to 'seal the deal' as they say."

The senior Powers, his brows knit, was nodding now.

"Of course," Thomas added gravely, "these are all conjectures. There's no _proof_. Not likely to be, either." He shook his head and sighed. "Hardcastle has many friends in the LAPD."

"He's not the only one with friends," Powers muttered.

Thomas sat back, exuding just the faintest air of shock. There'd been rumors that, in addition to his profitable civil law practice, Powers "managed things" for one of the West Coast's more ambitious crime families. Thomas ardently hoped that rumor was true.

"But I would counsel patience," he said with practiced spinelessness—it was just the right tone to egg someone like Powers on. The dean even smiled beatifically and murmured, "We all know crime doesn't pay."

"The hell it doesn't," Powers shot back, looking disgusted. "I've seen it pay plenty." He stood, nodding once sharply. "But not this time."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three  
**

The list had impressed McCormick. Despite vivid memories of many of the names on it, the sheer _number_ of people he'd directly or indirectly inconvenienced in the past four years was astonishing. They'd spent the evening before pulling the corresponding files and cross-checking to see which of the candidates were out on bond.

"But see, some of these folks—take Jersey Joe, or Frank Kelly for example," Hardcastle thwacked the topmost sheet with his finger, "guys like that have organizations, and just 'cause they're in the hoosegow, doesn't mean they don't still have some resources on the outside. But still . . ."

"You don't think Hawksworth would be buddying up to the mob, huh?" McCormick said dryly. "Murder yes, consorting with low-lifes, no. So that means we're looking for someone like Parnell, or Brant, former honored members of the judiciary brought down by an ex-con."

"Sounds about right."

Mark sighed and glanced over at the piles on the table. "Anything that'll shorten the list." He shifted his gaze to Hardcastle. "You know even if we narrow it down to a half-dozen, we'll still need some kind of proof—some evidence of a connection with Hawksworth."

"Yeah," Hardcastle grunted, "but there's always a paper trail. Phone records, meetings-"

"An appointment book."

Hardcastle glanced up sharply from his own musings, his eyes narrowing suspiciously despite the younger man's casual tone.

"Well, not exactly a book," Mark went on. "Modern times—it's all kept on computers these days. Easier for the secretary; saves trees."

"You didn't—" The judge cleared his throat and then repeated, more insistently. "Tell me you didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Didn't go poking around in Hawksworth's office after you found his body."

"I _didn't_ ," McCormick said sharply. "I told you, I got there right before you did. You believe me, don't you?"

"Yeah . . . sure, of course I do." Hardcastle's eyes were still narrowed. "So how'd you get it?"

"A friend of a friend . . . of a friend. Nothing illegal. Hawksworth's secretary took a couple weeks leave—she was pretty shaken up by the whole thing. Before she left she gave the computer password and a box of diskettes to the guy who's clerking for Professor Kolper."

Hardcastle looked dubious.

"It's just a list of appointments for the week before he died." Mark stood, digging into his back pocket and pulled out the paper, unfolding it. "I'm there, natch, so's Powers, but there's a bunch of names I don't recognize."

"It won't be someone from our list. Our guys are mostly in jail." Hardcastle held out his hand impatiently.

Mark handed the sheet over, watching silently for a moment as the judge studied it.

"Anything?" he finally asked.

"Dunno, maybe. Here's one—Sunday—that's the day before this whole thing started. Looks like he got together with Clement Upton."

"Saw the name—he's not in my class."

"Sure the hell isn't—he's an industrialist." Hardcastle squinted. "Retired, I think. Used to pal around with J.J. Norcross."

"Wait a sec. _You're_ the guy who screwed up Norcross's toxic waste operation."

"I'm not the one who snuck into city hall and made off with those planning commission maps that put us onto him. That'd be you, sport," Hardcastle pointed out. "Anyway, it's a long shot, but it's worth looking into." He sighed and glanced at the paper again. "There's a couple more here—ha, here's a defense attorney."

"Hawksworth didn't seem like the type who'd approve of them."

"Maybe not, but he had lunch with one that week, Harold Tunstrow. Anyway, we're not talking public defenders here." Hardcastle wrinkled his brow. "If memory serves, he was second chair on Senator Crocker's team."

"You remember that?" McCormick gave him a look of disbelief. "That was three _years_ ago."

Hardcastle shrugged. "More like two and a half."

"And it wasn't my fault Crocker got caught—that was Cyndi Wensek." McCormick paused, frowning for a moment, and then said, "Maybe I should give her a call—make sure everything's okay."

"Why don't I do that—she gives you the cold shoulder again, you'll be useless for weeks." The judge glanced down at the paper again, sucking in his lower lip for a moment and then muttered, "Don't suppose there's any more where this came from."

"Might be," Mark said cautiously. "I'd have to ask." There was a pointed silence and he finally added, "Do you _want_ me to ask?"

"Nothing illegal," Hardcastle said firmly. "And in the meantime," he held up the appointment list, "I'll just do a little sniffing around Hawksworth's known associates here. See if anybody seems nervous."

00000

Mattie Groves usually ate lunch in her chambers, but a combination of pleasant weather and a yen for Mexican food had coaxed her out of her routine. It was no coincidence, though, that the pursuit of the perfect fish taco would take her right by Frank Harper's office. She even figured she'd buy him a couple of enchiladas; though she suspected it was bringing coals to Newcastle, what with the lunches Claudia packed for her hard-working husband.

Still, there were a couple of extra items in the brown paper bag as she knocked on his door and heard the lieutenant's harassed, " _Yeah_?"

At least she got a thin smile from him as she let herself in. He didn't stand; that was strictly courtroom protocol. On all other grounds they were old poker buddies, and on a first-name basis.

"Mattie," he said, in as close an approximation of cheerful as he was capable of, "what are you doing in my neck of the woods?"

"Martinez's." She held out the bag.

"Enchiladas?" He cracked a smile.

"Of course."

The smile shifted slightly, to make room for a questioning look. "I'm about to be pumped for information, huh? Is this is some sort of enchilada-pro-quo?"

"Hah, so little faith in humanity. It's too many years on the force." She shook her head sadly as she put the bag down on his desk and nudged it towards him. "And, actually, I had something for you—just rumor so far."

Harper's left eyebrow went up. He gestured toward the chair and opened the bag as she settled herself across the desk from him. "Dibs on the fish tacos," she added.

"You can have 'em." Frank wrinkled his nose and passed them over, along with half the napkins. "So, what's the hot topic at the courthouse water cooler?"

"Winnie Gault—you know him?"

" _Judge_ Gault? Yeah, we've gone a couple of rounds."

"Well, this morning he comes in with his shorts in a knot—sounds like one of the lab techs got caught fudging the data."

Frank issued a low whistle.

"Exactly," Mattie nodded. "It happened yesterday afternoon. This morning he's phoning the judicial board, the D.A.'s office—everybody and their uncle, saying we need a grand jury to look into malfeasance in the crime lab."

"Huh. Not even an election year." Frank frowned. "Still, whaddaya expect? He's a stickler for details."

"That's the thing—he _is_ —and nobody's all that surprised that he's pitching a fit, but all this started _yesterday_. He knew that tech had perjured himself."

"And . . .?"

"I ran into him, as he was heading out of the building. I said hi; he said hi. He didn't even mention it, and he didn't seem upset _then_."

"Okay, so he thought it over, and worked up some indignation. No big surprise."

"Or somebody convinced him that something needed to be done. It just seemed odd, even for Winnie. I got the name of the technician who screwed up." She reached into her purse, pulled out a slip of paper, and handed it to the lieutenant. "Ring any bells?"

"Kendall Muller? Yeah, I've seen it before, sure, lots of times. Ahh . . . medium build, sandy hair. Does mostly microscope stuff." Frank paused, his face frozen. He swallowed once hard and said, "Oh, no," then pushed his chair back to turn to the file cabinet that doubled as his oversized "in" box. "No," he muttered more insistently as he yanked the drawer open and hastily riffled through the file tabs, seizing on the relevant one and pulling it out.

"No?" Mattie said hopefully.

"No . . . I mean _yes_ , dammit." He held the file open, fanned toward her, so she could see the report and the signature—'K. Muller'. "What are the odds?"

"Depends on who dealt the cards," Mattie said grimly. "But that gunpowder residue on Hawksworth's coat was the best piece of evidence linking him to the Power's murder. Circumstantial, maybe, but enough to keep the heat off Mark."

"Okay, so, even if they throw out everything Muller did, we'll just have them retest it."

"This still all look like coincidence to you, Frank? I take back everything I said about you being a hardened cynic." Mattie shook her head gently. "I wish I had half as much faith as you." She sighed. "You wanna tell Milt or should I?"

00000

They met in the library. It was safe neutral ground, and far less crowded than it had been the last time he'd been there, during the silent studying frenzy of dead week. Even so, Mark saw that the other party had taken a table well back from the main traffic areas and for a moment he wasn't sure if maybe he was supposed to stand off to one side and pretend they weren't together.

But, no, Joe Perillo waved him over, pointing to the empty seat across from him. Mark looked around, saw no one who didn't have his or her nose in a book, and tried to look nonchalant as he strolled over and joined him.

"I don't have a lot of time." Perillo checked his watch. "Kolper's over at Dodd Hall. I've got to pick him up in fifteen minutes."

Mark swallowed and nodded. "It won't take that long. Amy explained—?"

"That you need more, yeah."

"Don't get me wrong, that first sheet was a big help. It's just that it's like a snapshot; we'll just be lucky if we happened to get what we need from it."

Perillo frowned but it didn't look hostile. "There's a whole box of those damn disks with no labels. The one I took that list from happened to be in the desk drawer but all it had was the last week on it. I can try to find you some more but . . . _damn_ **."**

Mark looked up at the sudden change of tone and followed Perillo's gaze to the sharp left. He immediately took in what the other man had found so alarming, an elderly gentleman had just entered the library. He'd obviously just spotted them and was taking cautious but determined steps toward their table, leaning on a blackthorn cane as he tottered along.

"Meeting must have gotten done early," Perillo whispered. He was already on his feet, turning toward the man.

"I thought I might find you here," Professor Kolper said, with a nod directed at his clerk. "How nice to see a graduate mentoring one of our younger students."

Mark glanced at Joe, who was easily five years his junior. Maybe they all looked like pups to someone like Kolper. At any rate, he winced, knowing he'd been recognized.

Kolper turned his head to directly acknowledge him. "Mr. McCormick, is it? I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that I have finally posted the grades with the provost." He leaned in slightly and confessed, "I suspect mine were the last."

The self-deprecatory tone was unexpected, as was the hint of a smile. Mark hesitated and then quirked a smile of his own. "Good news, I hope?"

"For some of you, yes. I find most students give regrettably pedestrian responses on final exams. Academic timidity is an ugly thing. It's rare to find a spark of originality, especially coupled with a surprising grasp of the arcane. You remind me of a student I had about thirty years back. Congratulations, young man . . . now if you could just work on your penmanship."

"I passed?" Mark looked doubtful.

Kolper nodded once, judiciously.

Mark shot a grin at Perillo. "That's one down and three to go." He sobered suddenly and added, "Not that it'll mean much if . . ."

"It's my experience that young people nowadays spend too much time worrying about things," Kolper mused, "and not enough time doing something about them. I understand, from what Dean Thomas has said, that your standing at this institution is still a matter of concern."

"You mean he'd still like to kick me out?" Mark smiled grimly. "Yeah, kinda looks that way."

Kolper's expression became sterner. "You're familiar with the term 'cui bono?' no doubt."

"'Who benefits'?" Mark nodded. "Sure."

"Someone benefited—from those earlier deaths, at least, and perhaps Hawksworth's as well, if he was killed. I would think you'd be asking this clever young man here," he nodded sharply at Perillo, "who seems to know his way around those damn computing machines, if there's anything of interest there."

"I—I ...," Perillo stammered.

"Don't try to deny it," Kolper snapped, "You're handy with those things." He shook his head slowly. "Can't abide with them myself. Give me pen and ink—words in plain sight. No secrets. Nothing hidden."

He was gazing steadily at his clerk as he added, "Maybe what we ought to do is simply transfer everything to paper. 'Print it out'—that's how they say it, am I right?"

Perillo nodded. Then swallowed hard and said, "But it's a lot of data. It would take a while and—"

"I thought those machines were supposed to make our lives easier." Kolper squinted at him and then at McCormick.

Mark cleared his throat and said, "I've had a little experience . . . with the printing-out part, anyway."

"Perfect," the professor turned back to Perillo, "there, you've got some help. See how easy that was?" He tapped his stick on the floor, two quick, sharp clicks. "And I, being the emeritus in this operation, am going to take the rest of the afternoon off. I've earned it, dealing with Thomas today. However you, young man," he lowered his chin slightly and gave his clerk a significant look, "are still on the clock."

Then he nodded once, turned, and walked away.

Perillo stared at his back for a moment. He finally let out a breath and said, "What the hell just happened?"

"Plausible deniability?" Mark offered.

Perillo darted a glance at him and shook his head. "I don't think so. You know, Dean Thomas seemed pretty pleased with himself when I dropped Kolper at his office this morning. I think Kolper's telling us we better hustle 'cause something's up."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four  
**

Hardcastle wasn't surprised by the security he encountered entering Clement Upton's estate. The man had a reputation for eccentricity, but anybody with his net worth would be a fool not to establish some sort of perimeter, and Upton was no fool.

It had been more of a surprise that his call earlier that day had produced such quick results. He'd expected to run up against the usual walls that surrounded rich eccentrics, not have his request for a meeting be returned, within the hour, with an almost neighborly invitation to "come on over."

The wrought-iron gate and security cameras were more in line with his calculations, but the gate opened majestically at the mention of his name, and a sonorous, butler-like voice advised him to proceed up the drive. He proceeded. The place made his own spread look like a workman's cottage. The final approach was a straightaway suitable for landing small aircraft and at the end of that was a neo-classical mansion with all the trimmings.

The man who went with the butler's voice showed him in and escorted him to Upton's study, scaled to the rest of the place, with large windows, and a set of French doors that opened onto the back porch. Upton was standing, hands clasped behind his back, admiring the view down—a grassy sward, no doubt maintained at great cost, and beyond that the blue Pacific.

"Nice," Hardcastle said, admiringly.

The butler gave him a disapproving glance. The judge figured he'd broken some protocol, speaking before he'd been introduced, but Upton had glanced over his shoulder and smiled pleasantly.

"Judge Hardcastle, no doubt." Upton gestured him in toward a set of comfortable wingbacks that faced the windows and then nodded toward the butler. "Coffee, James, I think—unless you'd prefer something a little stronger, ah-?"

"Call me Milt," Hardcastle said expansively.

"Milt, excellent. My friends call me Clem, and I hope you include yourself in that group. We never had a chance to meet, but I remember you well."

He paused to savor Hardcastle's puzzled expression and then he smiled and added, "From the mayoral race."

"Ahh." Hardcastle nodded. "Not my shining moment—"

"On the contrary. I was impressed. I thought you brought a sense of honesty to the campaign. Of course it was J.J. who insisted you were the man to back." Upton's smile faded. "But even a broken clock tells the right time twice a day."

"Well, thanks. I guess it all turned out for the best. I'm still not putting it on my resume, though." Hardcastle cleared his throat slightly and plunged in. "So you're not tight with ol' J.J. anymore, huh?"

"No," Upton said firmly. "He took me for a substantial amount of money. Several millions. I'd _trusted_ him." He frowned. "It might have been more if you hadn't exposed him when you did. The audit was enlightening."

He paused, and then cocked his head. "I still think you would have made an excellent mayor."

"I think the current one is doing just fine."

"You do?" Upton sounded surprised. "You mean you're not canvassing?"

"For what? Hell, the next election's three years off."

"It's never too early to begin building a donor base."

Hardcastle shook his head. "I think I finally figured out I'm not the political type."

"Too bad. I know a great deal about fund-raising and philanthropy." It was Upton's turn to look puzzled. "But then, to what do I owe the pleasure today?"

"Professor Hawksworth, from the law school," Hardcastle paused for a moment and watched the other man's face.

Upton's expression didn't budge an inch—just polite curiosity.

Hardcastle cleared his throat and plunged ahead. "You know he died a couple weeks back."

"I heard he keeled over at his desk."

"Something like that. You knew him?"

"We've met. But, then, you must already know that. It's why you're here?"

Hardcastle nodded.

Upton seemed thoughtful, but perfectly at ease. "As I said, I'm extensively involved in philanthropy. I've donated a great deal of money to the university, and the school of law in particular. This dean of theirs—"

"Thomas?"

"The very same—he likes to send his people around, to hobnob with the big donors. Professor Hawksworth was my 'handler'." Upton made a little face. "He wasn't all that good at it—the hobnobbing part. I'd told him once that I'd understand if he was too busy to make the visits—it was once every few months, but he was quite dutiful." Upton grinned impishly. "I even made him shoot skeet the last time he was here."

"Huh?" Hardcastle straightened suddenly. He glanced toward the window and his gaze hardened. To the left, near what looked like a glorified garden shed, was a skeet trap.

"Here," Hardcastle said, "that Sunday?"

"He was better at it than I'd thought he'd be, but I don't think he enjoyed himself much. Like I said, dutiful. Skeet should never be dutiful."

Hardcastle clung to one last hope. "Do you remember what he was wearing?"

Upton looked at him oddly, then furrowed his brow. "A jacket—that tweed thing of his. I don't think I've ever seen him in anything else."

"You're sure?"

Upton cocked his head again. "Yes, fairly sure. I could check with the staff."

"No," Hardcastle said, "that's okay." He hesitated, then went on. "Was there anything unusual that day—did Hawksworth seem nervous or agitated?"

Upton thought about that for a moment and then said, "No—no more so than usual. He even managed to hit a pigeon or two. I wish I could be more help."

"You've already done enough," Hardcastle said, and then he sighed wearily and added, "You may need to make a statement to the police."

"I'll be glad to."

The butler had returned with the coffee, on a massive tray that contained, in addition, a meal's worth of finger food, but Hardcastle had entirely lost his appetite. He rose and made his excuses.

"You won't reconsider another try for public office?" Upton said wistfully.

"I think I've got my hands full right now." Hardcastle nodded as he turned for the door.

00000

He thought about it most of the way home. If he hadn't gone and turned over one too many rocks—the damn gunpowder residue couldn't hurt Hawksworth; the man was dead. But any alternate explanation for how it got on the professor's sleeve would leave Randy Powers's murder glaringly unsolved.

And if he _hadn't_ gone off to see Upton, if he hadn't heard that Hawksworth had used a shotgun only two days before his death—and most likely while wearing the very same jacket that had been sent off to the lab. What had McCormick called it—"his uniform"? If he'd just left well enough alone, that unfortunate alternative explanation might never have come to light.

 _I thought you believed in the whole truth and nothing but the truth._

But not these messy half-truths. Not when revealing them would put an innocent man back in the cross-hairs of the legal system.

He hadn't come any closer to making up his mind by the time he'd pulled into the driveway. He pulled up short; there was a cerise glow to the place as the late afternoon summer sun cut through the trees. He realized he'd been parked there in the drive for more than a couple of minutes when a sharp whistle yanked him from his pondering.

"Hey, you zoning out or something?"

It was McCormick, who'd obviously been back for a while and had shucked his khaki's and blue button-down collar for a pair of jeans and a tee. He had the lawnmower out and had apparently been heading down the drive.

"Nah," Hardcastle grumbled, "just admiring the view."

McCormick glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah, it's nice. Where've you been?"

This is where the lying would start, if there was going to be any. Hardcastle took a breath and said, "Had an appointment with Clement Upton. He wants me to run for mayor."

McCormick gave him a narrow look. "You're not falling for that crap again, I hope."

"I said no."

McCormick's eyes went a little wider. "Really, no kidding, he asked you?"

Hardcastle nodded. "And he says J.J. Norcross ripped him off for a couple mil—that's easy enough to check, I suppose."

McCormick looked crestfallen. "Guess that knocks him off the co-conspirators list, huh?" He brightened, just slightly. "Ask me how my afternoon went."

"Better than mine, I hope."

"Well, I have it from the horse's mouth that I passed civil procedure. I believe the term 'surprising grasp of the arcane' came up. That's good, isn't it?"

"That sounds like Kolper."

"Yup, and he threw in the keys to the office and all the free toner cartridges we wanted, me and Perillo. He's the friend of the friend of the friend—Kolper's law clerk."

"And . . .?"

"I've got six months of Hawksworth's appointments _and_ his address book—it's a copy. They're on your desk."

Hardcastle smiled thinly. "Just copies, and with the stated permission of the current occupant of the office?"

"More or less. Go in there and figure it out. I need to stretch my legs. I've been hunched over a printer all afternoon."

He wheeled the mower away. Hardcastle sat for a moment more, trying to decide if he'd lied yet and finally deciding that he was still in the gray zone, somewhere just this side of a sin of omission. He'd settle for that, for now anyway. He put the truck back in gear and headed for the house.

McCormick maneuvered the machine up over the curb and through a break in the bushes. He leaned over and pulled the starter cord. The motor sputtered and then roared to life. It was simple, mindless work. He had at least an hour of light left, and he intended to spend it not thinking about whatever it was that had made Dean Thomas a happy man today.

Hardcastle had adjourned to the den. It was a sheaf of papers: names and dates and times in sometimes dim dot matrix. He took out a pad and pen and started checking them off as he transferred them to his new list. He'd call Frank later; he'd already made up his mind about that. He'd have to tell McCormick, too. He half-hoped before he did either of those things, he'd have something promising to work with from all this—an alternative to the guy who was mowing his lawn.

He looked up, realizing he'd lost a lot of light. He was well back into the early spring and his pencil needed sharpening. The steady racket of the mower was farther away. McCormick must be nearly done, off in the further reaches of the yard.

The judge got up, feeling stiff, and looked out into the gloaming, where he could just make out the lighter patch of McCormick's shirt moving past the clumps of trees. "He oughta finish it tomorrow," he muttered.

He headed for the door, intending to say the same thing out loud, and had just put his hand on the knob when he heard the gun go off.

It was unmistakable, a shotgun, and some part of Hardcastle's mind registered the fact that he shouldn't fling the door open—backlit by the hallway light and facing out into God knows what—but that was exactly what he did. He was on the porch and down the steps before he even realized that he was unarmed, but even that didn't divert him when he saw the white patch now sprawled in gloom, next to the silent, shadowy shape of the mower.

" _McCormick_!"

To Be Continued


End file.
